


This Isn’t Happening

by eastwood



Series: This Isn’t Happening [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Not-really-Friends With Benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23652742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastwood/pseuds/eastwood
Summary: Just two adults making intelligent grown-up choices and dealing with the consequences thereof.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Series: This Isn’t Happening [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704397
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	This Isn’t Happening

> _**Jesse** _  
>  _u still up?_  
>  _Read 12:28 AM_

Angela has to sigh, and clasp her phone sideways with both hands, and think at least half seriously about answering. 

The issue is not that it’s late, or that she’s tired, or that they’re not actually friends and she still isn’t sure who gave him her number but she has some pretty good guesses and will one day pay back the favor — and more that her empty glass is sitting next to an empty bottle and he’s not really asking if she’s awake. Jesse would have known the answer even before sending the text and seeing that she’s opened it, anyway.

She lifts her phone again and thumbs in an affirmative reply, and is quickly answered despite the time it took.

> _im at Duke’s_  
>  _burger w chees_  
>  _m fries?_  
>  _Read 12:38 AM_
> 
> _  
> _ _Onion rings_  
>  _Read 12:38 AM_

Angela tosses her phone onto the sofa cushion beside her, tucks her heels a little more tightly under herself, and turns up the volume on TV. It is that stage of the night where it’s easier to wait twenty minutes than it is to move. She suspects Jesse has developed a sixth sense about choosing the right minute to make offers for fast food runs; lately he’s been getting it right more often than not. Or else her appetite has begun to sync with that of a man twice her size and recently poured out of a bar. Troubling. 

Her front door unlocks, there’s a pause where she knows Jesse is replacing the key underneath her hydrangea pot, and then it opens and she has to listen to the fumbling of boots and coat being removed while paper and plastic bags are juggled before Jesse finally emerges into her living room.

“I got margarita mix,” he announces, though the grease-spotted, aromatic paper bag he drops onto the side table next to Angela is plainly not that. “It’s strawberry.”

“Did you get napkins this time,” she asks, poking into the bag to fish out an onion ring, still crisp and hot.

“I did not,” Jesse says, wholly unapologetic, and then takes himself and his liquor store haul directly into her kitchen. Soon her refrigerator’s ice dispenser starts grumbling, spitting ice cubes into glasses. Angela hooks another onion ring before she’s finished the first.

The margarita mix is corn syrup sweet, red like candy, and Jesse had put in an equal amount of tequila that probably also came in a plastic bottle to go with it, but he’d at least poured it all into a pair of her tallest water glasses packed full of ice so it’s cold and watered down. Gone are the days where he’d show up with lukewarm wine coolers and expect her to drink them.

He sprawls out on the opposite corner of the sofa and slurps at his drink. Angela finds two straws further down in the bag of food and unwraps one for herself, then digs back in for the rest of her food.

“What episode is this?” Jesse asks, pointing one finger from around his glass at the TV screen and scratching at his beard with the others. “What happened to that guy? Did he get kicked off? Ah there he is. What the fuck is he wearing?” 

Angela doesn’t have an answer for him, more focused on managing a cheeseburger without _napkins_ and how to put it down when she wants a drink. He’s capable of talking to the TV by himself for up to an hour when he’s been out drinking.

Jesse doesn’t sound drunk, though there’s no doubt he’d been out before coming over. His shoulders are loose, eyes sleepy, and he’s carelessly draining his drink like he’s just thirsty, rattling the ice cubes and catching one between his back teeth, crunching on it loud and not pausing from his live commentary, which has the constant, rambling quality of a missing filter. 

It’s not long before he’s reaching along the back of the sofa to nudge her shoulder and say, “Hey, get me one,” as Angela puts another onion ring in her mouth.

She pinches the corner of the bag and passes it over. His eyebrows lift, instantly pleased as she knew he would be, and she folds up her cheeseburger in its wrapper as well to ask, “finish this for me?” He takes it all, polishing off the last few bites and the rest of the onions then crumples up the bag and wipes his greasy fingers on it as he hefts himself up and off to the kitchen again. 

When he comes back it’s with a new glass of ice and bright red margarita, and he drapes himself over the sofa right next to her, one elbow propped behind her shoulders to lean his head on. He smells like cigarettes and faintly of beer, but mostly fried onions, and it’s warm where his thigh presses up against her bare foot. Angela shifts around, to put her back against the arm of the sofa away from the onion smell and her feet on his warm leg.

Jesse passes her his drink, and waits for her to take a sip before he drops his ice cold hand to curl around one of her feet and give it a squeeze, smirking when she digs a heel into the meat of his thigh, though he says, “ow, I’m tryin’ to watch.”

But his hand warms up, and he slides a wide thumb up and down the bone of Angela’s ankle and continues to talk half at the TV and half at her until she corrects him on who really deserves to win this episode of Project Runway. He slouches sideways, slowly coming to rest his head on her shoulder, his arm loosely wrapped around her bent legs until she’s tucked into the curve of his side, and her fingers are lazily combing the day’s tangles out of his hair, probably making him smell more like onions. They pass the drink back and forth a few times before Jesse drains it empty, squishing her a little when he has to stretch to leave the empty glass on the side table. He is really too big and heavy to be crammed into the corner like this with her, but she has never seen the point in convincing him otherwise after he’s brought over hot food and cheap drinks, and she knows that he knows this.

The episode ends and Jesse gripes about the winner over the next show’s preview, though he gets muffled as he turns his face into her neck and rubs her with his bearded chin.

“Are you staying over?” Angela asks, his answer determining whether they will move this to the bed or not. Jesse hums, and nods, presses his lips to a spot under her ear.

They disentangle from the sofa, Angela pausing to turn off the television and the lamp and collect wet glasses full of still melting ice for the sink while Jesse slopes off to the bedroom at the back of the apartment.

When she makes it there too he’s slowly unbuttoning his shirt, with a break to scratch at the hair of his belly once it’s revealed, and he smiles drowsily at her as she passes him for the en suite. 

“If you want to sleep then sleep,” she tells him over her shoulder.

“M’awake,” he claims. Though by the time she’s finished rinsing her mouth and shaking out her hair from its tie, lounge pants skimmed off and dropped in the clothes hamper, she returns to find him shirtless though only at the point of peeling his socks from his feet, jeans unzipped but left sagging around his hips. 

She climbs into bed and slides her legs under the heavy, cool comforter, tugging her cotton sleep shirt to keep it from riding up, and takes her time fluffing and arranging pillows, wondering if it would be too much to ask Jesse to take a shower and avoid stinking up her sheets, until Jesse finally puzzles out how to free himself from his socks and pants and boxers, and drops face down next to her with a _whuff_. 

A moment later he snakes his hand under the covers, finds her leg, and smooths broadly up until his thumb trips on the trim of her underwear. He’s smiling crooked at her, head turned with one heavy lidded eye catching hers, and his fingertips are grazing the softest spot of her thighs. He doesn’t wait for her to say anything, just sits up and shuffles under the comforter with her, then bends down right away, his mouth on her stomach, then her hips, as he pulls the underwear down, and then dipping right between her legs where his tongue- ah.

Angela sinks into the bed, against his mouth, lets him take her thighs and press them close to his head while he licks at her in wide strokes, coaxes her clit with his lips and the tip of his tongue. His thumb comes up to rub lightly at her entrance, spreading wetness and firm, distracting friction. He seems interested in being quick tonight; the thumb dips shallow in and out and is soon replaced with two fingers, slipping into her just an inch and stroking just that spot. 

Angela huffs, resting a hand on top of his head and squeezing her thighs together like he likes, with the unfortunate side effect that it’s going to make her come even sooner. She is not ready, it’s only been minutes. 

“Jesse,” she says, and he _sucks_ and presses with his fingers in a way that makes her jerk like being electrified and she grabs him by the hair and bites out, “wait, I mean wait,” which thankfully, he listens to.

“Hm?” he says, lifting his head to trail wet kisses up her thigh, and she thinks of how to distract him. 

“Can you get the vibrator?” she asks, waving vaguely to her nightstand, and that seems to work. 

Jesse gets up on an elbow with a sloppy grin and reaches over to dig through the drawer until he finds it, slim and silicone. He gives it over when she holds out her hand, and stays propped up to watch, rapt, while she clicks it on to a low setting and slicks it through her own wetness a few times. She brings it to rest against her clit, only gently, gently, and then he sinks down with his mouth again to kiss at her and lap up against the tip of the vibrator before going lower and licking inside.

Which is good, and fine. He has too much talent for this, and she needs him to keep it focused on less sensitive areas.

He may have guessed her motives; when his fingers return he keeps them outside, only rubbing a little, spreading her for the flat of his tongue, not eliciting the thick pressure and hot liquid friction from before. It’s pleasantly gradual, a slow rolling build up that has her tick the vibration up twice more, pushing it along, before her climax finally wobbles and overflows through her, warm and buoyant and easy to just sigh and push Jesse’s head down a little more and have another one quickly teased out of her. After, she drops an arm to the side, letting the vibrator roll out of her hand and onto the bed as she nudges Jesse from between her legs.

He flops away and onto his back, wiping his face with a forearm, eyes closed, at the same time reaching down to squeeze his dick, giving it a few lazy tugs. Then he looks over and up at her, mouth curved and beard still quite damp, and asks, “Good?” the word low and deep and very pleased with himself.

Angela smirks, reaching over to brush his hair away from his face, and his grin breaks wider. He turns into her hand, and skims his palm up his belly as he starts getting off, still slow, but in earnest now.

It is not a bad view. The bulk of his thighs, minutely falling open stroke by stroke, one big knuckled hand working his cock and the other sliding absently across from hairy stomach to smooth ribs… Angela scoots a little more onto her side for a more comfortable angle to watch, and then her eye catches on the color of silicone that’s ended up right by Jesse’s hip. 

She pokes his calf with a toe to get his attention. “Do you want that?”

“Hmmm?” Jesse looks bleary this time when his eyes open, but he manages to identify the tilt of her chin and cranes his head around until he spots what she’s spotted. His lip curls, a little smirk. “You gonna help?”

Angela snorts faintly; he knows she doesn’t mind leaving him to his own devices at all. But since he asked. 

“If you like,” she says, and frees the vibrator from being half stuck under Jesse’s back. She props her head up on one hand, and turns it on to a middle setting, before thinking again. “Do you use these much?” 

Jesse wags his head back and forth. “Jus’ a couple times, myself.” But his eyes are dark and heavy, trained on her, interested.

She keeps it on the middle setting, a comfortable buzz, then touches it to Jesse’s stomach. He huffs a laugh and she smiles back. “Not too strong?”

“Nah, angel. Go ‘head.”

So she does, down to where he’s slowed to a near forgotten rhythm on his dick. He starts to let go, giving up room, but she makes a sound of disapproval and he keeps himself loosely grasped in place for her to press the vibrator up to the base of his cock.

“How’s that?” she asks, honestly wondering since she’s never seen a vibrator used on a cock, and how they might get the full effect of erogenous zones. 

“S’alright,” Jesse answers. He gives himself an idle stroke. “Kinda nice.” 

“How did you use it before?” Angela wonders aloud, perhaps fishing for ideas, and puts the vibrator higher, meeting the slender crest of it flush against the fat head of Jesse’s dick.

Jesse’s smirk curls up again. “Mostly up my ass. Mm. That’s nice.” His thumb swipes over his slit, pressing himself a little closer to the vibration. 

“Harder?” Angela asks, and clicks up two settings. Honestly, she would hope to find alternative uses than ‘up his ass’.

“Sure- ah, hm. You got any, uh.” Jesse swallows, then licks his lips, and Angela is smug.

“Yes?”

“Lube? You got lube, right?”

She does, and that seems to be the trick. 

Once slick, Jesse likes it heavy pressed under his cock, and light around his testicles, and then just behind those his voice cracks and he asks very, very sweetly if Angela wouldn’t mind putting it in him, just a little, he wouldn’t need much. Which, fine, she can admit having him squirm under her hands is convincing. 

And he is telling the truth.

Within thirty seconds he’s coming harder than she’s ever seen him, or any man actually, with his hand tight on his dick and head thrown back on a full throated moan as he comes all over his own stomach. Angela is somewhat stunned, as he’s catching his breath, panting lightly and whole body loose, until she realizes something’s missing.

Yes, definitely missing.

“Jesse,” she murmurs. 

“Yeah, honey,” he sighs, almost slurs. Then, after a long moment where she tries to decide how to phrase this, he goes completely still. “Is it...”

“It slipped,” she says, still hushed. “Do you want me to-”

Jesse sits right up, saying “Nope,” and Angela winces when he does. He makes a weak open-handed gesture towards her en suite. “I’m just gonna. See what I can do.” Then he slides out of bed, somewhat gingerly, and walks off into the bathroom without any hurry. 

Angela waits a minute, wiping her hands off with a tissue, and when she hears the shower turn on she gets her phone off the nightstand, directing a new browser page to WebMD.

Fifteen minutes later, the shower turns off and Angela stops hovering by the bed and goes to the bathroom door. 

She taps her knuckles on it. “Any luck?”

“Nope,” comes Jesse’s voice. She can’t tell through the door what sort of tone he’s using, but a moment later it opens and he’s standing there with a towel around his waist, wet and dripping, mouth twisted wryly.

“We should go to the ER,” Angela tells him. She has spent several minutes coming up with a sound, sober argument to convince him, and really, it is the best option.

“Ha. Yeah, fuck no,” Jesse says, but a glance at her face has him take a moment to expand that sentiment. “No offense darlin’, I’m just gonna go see somebody a little more familiar with the territory to handle this.” Then he drops the towel and starts gathering his clothes.

“What is that supposed to mean,” she says, hearing the exasperation in her own voice and not liking it, but also it actually would be better if Jesse just listened to sense. “I think I know-”

“By territory I mean my ass,” Jesse says, a little too brightly, then he straightens up to do the fly of his jeans and makes a face. He drags on his shirt next and flashes her a pleading puppy-eyed look, which he is approximately two decades too old for, while buttoning it from the bottom. “Ange, sweetheart, I’m not gonna make you go to the ER at 2 AM. _I_ don’t want to go to the ER. And, the closest hospital is yours.”

“That’s really not a problem,” Angela protests. Medical emergencies take clear precedence, no matter how she might normally avoid being linked to Jesse McCree, sexually or otherwise, and truly she wouldn’t expect him to go alone— but Jesse just shakes his head and, finished dressing, stops and looks at her.

She plants her hands on her hips, aware that she may look ridiculous doing so in only an oversized t-shirt and bedhead. Jesse seems appropriately cautious when he comes close to peck a careful kiss to her cheek. 

“How ‘bout if it’s not better in the morning, I’ll call you?”

“I do not agree with this,” she intones, for lack of any other method to punish him.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, sugar,” Jesse offers. “Have another margarita for me, or something.”

And then he’s away through the rest of the apartment, leaving the way he came in not that long ago. Angela exhales slowly through her nose, then sees that he’d left his socks behind and kicks them under the bed. Idiot. Both of them.

> **_Jesse_ **  
>  _its out_  
>  _no hospital ;-)_  
>  _batteries still good case u wondered_  
>  _Read 6:58 AM_

> _want it back?_  
>  _Read 1:06 PM_
> 
>   
>  _Absolutely not_  
>  _Sorry_  
>  _About all that_  
>  _Are you alright?_  
>  _Read 3:22 PM_
> 
>   
>  _yea darlin no harm done_  
>  _Read 3:25 PM_
> 
> _u up?_  
>  _Read 10:40 PM_
> 
>   
>  _Yes_  
>  _Read 10:44 PM_
> 
>   
>  _chinese? usual?_  
>  _Read 10:45 PM_
> 
>   
>  _Please_  
>  _Read 10:45 PM_
> 
>   
>  _yes maam xx_  
>  _Read 10:45 PM_

Angela has eaten nothing but soda crackers all day, and done nothing beyond brush her teeth and fall asleep on her sofa, through several episodes of Say Yes to the Dress. She’d developed a headache around 5 AM, no doubt courtesy of the horribly sweet so-called margaritas from last night, and she plans to tell Jesse to take the rest of that mix out of her fridge and pour it down the drain.

Her head still feels sullen and tender, despite liberal application of seltzer tablets and multivitamins, and she is grateful when she hears the lock in the front door that Jesse can let himself in and she does not have to get up.

He spots her curled up in the corner of the sofa and comes over, planting a plastic bag full of takeout in front of them on her coffee table, followed by a loud kiss on the side of her head as he sits down close, an arm around her shoulders. Angela catches his fingers with her own, curling them loosely together in lieu of a greeting.

“Well I’m never gonna live that down,” Jesse says cheerfully, “But on the bright side, I learned a lotta wonders ‘bout the human body.”

Angela squeezes his fingers, he squeezes back and butts the side of his head against hers.

“How did it go?” she asks.

“Not bad. Just took a little elbow grease.” She makes a noise of displeasure and he chuckles. “The good part is they figured I just got drunk and did it to myself.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Angela has an idea of who might be familiar enough with ‘the territory’ for Jesse to go to with this… dilemma. It’s not something Jesse speaks of normally, and not something she normally asks either, they don’t talk about other people to each other, but most everyone in their circles knows anyway.

“Mm not tellin’. Consider me a wall, sweetheart. Privacy goin’ both ways.” He’s grinning as he says it, blithely unoffended by a little nosiness. “Anyhow, you hungry?”

At her confirmation he lays out the full spread over the coffee table, white paper boxes with ginger pork and steamed rice for her, and a styrofoam container of sticky fried chicken wings for him, along with a wax paper bag stuffed to bursting with eggrolls, and a six pack of cans, perhaps beer but she can’t read the label from here and she knows he knows she doesn’t like cheap beer, which is the only kind he buys.

He obediently hands her chopsticks and ginger pork and, with a flourish, a single napkin. The canned drinks turn out to be some sort of vodka soda cocktail, still cold from a cooler, and Angela accepts one with a little resignation.

Jesse talks to the TV while he sits hunched over his food, with his mouth full, and he licks sauce off his fingers after every piece of chicken yet still manages to build a small mountain of balled up napkins on the coffee table. He drinks three cans of the vodka soda in succession, and finally points to the packet of egg rolls to say, with accusation, “I didn’t even want those, they were closing and snuck ‘em in.” He eats two of them.

Angela, having finished what she could of her food a while ago, sips at her second drink and listens to him disagree hotly with the bridesmaids and wedding shoes and mothers-in-law on screen.

When the episode ends he huffs and groans, but gets up and packs away all the takeout debris back into its bag to dispose of it in the kitchen. He returns with one of her green glass bottles of Pellegrino, cracking it open while standing and watching the next episode begin. He notices her raised eyebrow, mirrors it with a lightly mocking one, and drinks directly from the bottle. 

“Didn’t finish the margaritas, huh?” he asks, screwing the cap back on the Pellegrino and coming back to the couch. “Thought that might be why you were lookin’ a little under the weather.”

Angela scoffs. “I don’t want to see that color ever again. You need to get rid of it before you leave.”

Jesse sits down next to her with a sigh, only smirking a little. “Yeah alright, wasn’t my favorite either. Want some of this?” He offers the Pellegrino, but sets it aside when she declines. His arm settles back around her shoulders, and she bridges her legs across his lap for the extra room, knees leaned into his chest. The natural order of these nights, unrepentant bribery and holding and being held.

They watch another episode. This time Jesse takes less umbrage at everyone’s bad taste and even agrees with Swarovski crystal tiara, of all things, while he distractedly rubs up and down Angela’s shin with a palm, warm through her leggings. He’s easily tugged sideways when Angela wants to curl up with the rest of him.

“Thought I’d stay over,” he murmurs into her mess of hair. “Missed your breakfast this morning.”

“You never eat my breakfast,” Angela points out. “You hate spinach. And flax seed. And greek yogurt. You called it dick cheese.” There is a long list of expensive, healthy food that Angela has found he’ll turn up his nose at, and it does not fail to be irritating.

Jesse hums dreamily. “Thought I’d go get a bacon cheeseburger and eat it in front of you.”

Angela wrinkles her nose. “At seven in the morning.”

“I know a guy.” Jesse sighs and shifts around, settling more squished against her in tight quarters, now in a position that better allows her to pet his chest. “I’ll get you a new vibrator,” he says, typically non sequitur.

“What did you do with the other one,” Angela asks, hoping it has been thrown away.

“I’m a wall, darlin’. Don’t ask don’t tell.”

“As you said,” Angela says.

“Maybe one with a lifeline,” Jesse continues. His eyes have dropped nearly closed since she started rubbing his chest, an easy trick, and he smirks faintly. “An’ auto-eject. Homing signal. GPS.”

“Mmhm,” she answers drily. 

Jesse's mouth broadens into a crooked smile. “I’ll ask around.”

The episode ends, and Angela turns off the TV before another one can begin. Jesse mutters a bit about being made to move, but they go to bed.

He is already tucked under the covers when Angela returns from cleaning up and getting undressed. She slides in with him, and he reaches for her, palm coming to rest on her hip. 

“You want anything?” Jesse mumbles, his face half stuffed into a pillow, voice creaky in the way it goes when he’s dropping off.

“Just sleeping,” Angela says, and he hums agreeably, scoots a little closer to spoon along her side.

She finds his arm, lax across her stomach, and puts her hand there. Sometimes this happened, too. It was odd, these late nights, where he bribes himself into her apartment and just wants to eat and drink and watch stupid shows together. Barring yesterday, it is always easy and shallow and ends the occasional, and otherwise unremarkable weekend with orgasms and someone to share the bed with. 

“Hey Ange,” Jesse says, and she hums to show she’s still awake. “Did that freak you out, or maybe you wanna try it again sometime.”

Angela huffs, surprised to be amused. “No it did not ‘freak me out’. My standards are very high in that department. I’m more surprised _you_ want to try it again.”

“‘Course I do.” He gives her a little shake around the middle. “You bein’ all in charge. How come we never play doctor?”

He’s teasing her, she knows, and she pinches his arm for it.

“You’ll have to get a second opinion.”

He lets out a stupid, cheesy growl. “Yeah, doctor dirty talk. Tell me how bad my blood pressure is.”

“Just shut up. Go to sleep.”

“Yes’m,” he murmurs, then yawns right in her ear and snuggles that last bit closer.

“You are an idiot,” she tells him quietly. 

“I wanna try it again,” he says even quieter.

Ok, fine, she thinks. They will do it again, next time better.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
